Chapter 138: A Hit
April squeezed the trigger again. The gun barked loudly, but the bullet tore cleanly through the empty air to the left of the silhouette, failing to make a single hit.
Nat let out a rich, mocking laugh, leaning his head completely over hers, his chin resting lightly against the top of her hair as he looked down at her annoyed face.
"I can see you really don’t have this down yet," he teased, his tone dripping with an infuriatingly smug affection. "You’re definitely not cut out for the infantry, sweetheart. But don’t worry..." He tightened his arms around her smaller frame, his voice echoing warmly against her headset. "I’ll still protect you."
April’s eye subtly twitched. She hated that she was missing the target, and she especially hated the heavy, warm weight of his head resting on hers while he laughed at her poor talent.
Shooting is just too difficult, she thought sourly, glaring at the pristine, unblemished paper target in the distance. Every survivor in the wasteland made this look so simple.
They must’ve only just picked up a gun when the apocalypse began and yet they were that good, so why was her own accuracy a complete disaster?
Nat chuckled at her silent irritation, finally releasing his tight grip on her hands and stepping back just enough to give her some breathing room. He leaned against the partition wall, crossing his arms as he watched her glare at the pristine paper target.
"Don’t look at it like you want to murder the paper with your mind, sweetheart," he teased, tossing an extra magazine onto the counter. "It takes time to get the muscle memory down. Try it without me holding you."
April didn’t say a word. She adjusted her stance, trying to replicate the exact shoulder alignment and core balance Nat had forced her into just moments ago.
She raised the heavy pistol, lined up the iron sights, and focused entirely on the center mass of the silhouette.
BANG!
The recoil bit into her wrists, but this time, her arms didn’t fly wildly upward. She kept her eyes locked down and she saw it. A clean, round hole suddenly materialized on the paper—not in the dead center, but firmly in the lower left shoulder of the silhouette.
A hit.
April’s lips curled by a fraction. Her calculation was correct; she just needed to manually adjust her counter-recoil trajectory to account for her lacking physical strength.
"Well, look at that," Nat murmured, his wild eyes widening with genuine, sharp surprise.
A slow, predatory grin spread across his face as he looked at the hole, then back to her entirely unbothered face. "Most civilians take three boxes of ammo just to graze the paper on their own. You adapted after two shots. You really are full of surprises, aren’t you?"
"It is simple physics and repetitive calibration," April stated flatly, lowering the weapon and popping the magazine out with a crisp, mechanical click. She stared at it. It was empty. She had to finish an entire magazine before she hit a target.
"Once the initial variable is calculated, correcting the trajectory is just an issue of execution."
"Physics, she says," Nat muttered, shaking his head with a low laugh as he walked over to the secure wall locker. "And how much of this physics do you know about?"
April opened her mouth to speak confidently but in that moment, she froze. She tried to think, how much of physics does she know? She couldn’t... Remember.
When did she even learn physics?
She placed her hand on her head. That’s strange. Is this also a part of the memories I’m missing?
She did know physics. She could tell but, how or when she learned physics, she could not remember.
Nat watched her as she pondered over this, but he didn’t think much about it. He simply felt she was troubled about how much amount she wasted.
"Alright, enough of that." He said, snapping her out of her thoughts and she lifted her gaze to look at him, shoving the confusing thoughts aside. "You proved you can defend yourself if some trash gets past your gates and I’m not there to take them out for you. Now, let’s get to the real reason I dragged you out here."
He reached deep into the bottom tier of the steel locker, pulling out a sleek, heavy case made of reinforced carbon fiber.
He set it down on the glass counter between them, the heavy thud echoing in the private lane.
"You asked for my protection, sweetheart," Nat said, his voice dropping its playful mockery, shifting into a deep, heavy seriousness that belonged entirely to an underworld sovereign. He tapped the top of the case. "And I told you I’d give it to you. But a guy like me can’t be standing next to you twenty-four hours a day when the world starts burning, right? So, I prepared something that will act as my proxy."
He popped the heavy side latches and flipped open the lid.
Resting inside the custom black foam lining was an absolute masterpiece of firearms engineering.
It was a sleek, silver handgun, its metallic surface polished to a mirror-like finish that caught the lights of the range perfectly. The weapon was a high-tier, customized Gabriel production, known worldwide for its flawless reliability and stopping power.
April leaned over slightly, her dark eyes tracking the intricate custom work.
Engraved beautifully along the sleek silver slide was her last name, Gabriel, but Nat had gone a step further—meticulously carved right near the safety switch was her first name initial, A, seamlessly integrated into the premium metalwork.
"This..." April murmured softly, her fingers lightly trailing over the cold, polished silver.
This was a pure, high-grade physical asset born of human craftsmanship, customized solely for her hand.
"It’s a custom-weighted Gabriel," Nat explained, his eyes fixed on her face, watching for her reaction as he leaned his forearms against the counter. "I had my personal gunsmiths strip the inner springs and adjust the trigger pull specifically for a smaller frame. The recoil is balanced so you won’t throw your wrists out, and the casing is entirely corrosion-resistant. It won’t jam, it won’t misfire, and it’ll put down whatever trash tries to step into your space."
April carefully lifted the silver weapon from its foam casing. The weight was immaculate—substantially lighter than the standard tactical pistol she had just fired, yet it felt incredibly dense and secure in her gloved hand.
"Thank you, Nat," April said, her voice remaining low but carrying a rare, genuine note of appreciation.
She turned the weapon over, her thumb resting directly over the carved letter A. "Having a highly reliable, personalized ballistic asset is a significant upgrade for my physical defense. It is a very efficient gift."
Nat let out a low, dangerous chuckle, thoroughly satisfied by her clinical, yet practical approval. He leaned a fraction closer, his wild gaze burning with that familiar, manic intensity. "I already told you, sweetheart. Keeping you protected is the best damn game in the world. Just make sure when you pull that trigger, you don’t miss." His face was directly over hers now. "And if you do miss," he lifted his hand and brushed her eyebrow with his thumb. "Fire right away until you get the damn thrash down. Got it?"